Please welcome Christina from A Mommy Story…we love her. (and that’s “we” like, the royal “we” meaning just me)
Hi there. Queen asked me to look after her bloggy home for today while she catches up with ruling the virtual world and managing her super top secret project. While I admit I’m a street corner performer compared to this rock star blogger, I think I can hold down the fort for today. I gave a lot of thought as to what topic to write on, but kept coming back to her favorite subject: boobs.

Remember junior high school? Yeah, I don’t like to either. I’m convinced the purpose of junior high is to lock the tweens away in their own building to protect the younger kids from them, and to preserve them from the high schoolers who would kill them in a heartbeat.

My worst memory from junior high was gym class. The class itself was pretty dreadful (climbing a rope? running laps around a drab gym? seriously?), but what I really hated was changing in the locker room. Asking girls to change clothes in front of each other during this period of awkward growth is just cruel, because you know there are always those girls who will find the self-conscious girls like a heat-seeking missile and make every effort to ridicule them. As you can probably guess, I was one of those self-conscious girls.

Puberty wasn’t kind to me. While other girls were happily sporting their new bras, I had no need in seventh grade, because I still had no breasts to show for all my growth. Sure, I’d gained several inches in height, got my period, and developed curves on the bottom half, but the top half lagged behind. I suppose I could have worn a bra even though there was nothing to support, but I was never a girly-girl, so I simply breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to add that apparatus to my daily dressing routine yet.

But then there was Mandy.

Mandy was one of those girls who cared not only about her own appearance, but everyone else’s as well. It was her self-appointed purpose in seventh grade to monitor the physical development of all of the girls in the class, making sure those who were under performers were given their proper shame. It didn’t take long before I became a target.

Early in the school year, while walking up the stairs from the locker room to the gym, I felt a finger run down my back. “Did you forget something,” I heard Mandy ask me.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know. I think you forgot to put something on.” I could feel the other girls staring at me now.

I tried to laugh it off. “Gym clothes, hair band, deodorant…I think I’m covered.”

She wouldn’t let up. “But where’s your bra?” she asked, running her finger down my back again. The other girls laughed.

At this point I felt about two inches tall. “I don’t have one yet,” I replied dryly.

I was in her trap now. Mandy gave a big, theatrical laugh, her braces glinting in the fluorescent light, and declared to the crowd, “Oh that’s right! You don’t have anything to put in there, do you?”

I’d like to say this was an isolated incident, but it wasn’t. Just as she reminded a poor classmate to not wear the same clothes twice in the same week, Mandy also would routinely do a “bra check” on me to see if I was wearing one. In December, she told me I should ask Santa for breasts. By the end of the school year, she took a new tactic, often telling me, “Really, I think it’s time you buy a bra. It’s pathetic. Maybe you can find one with fake boobs in it while you hope for your own? Although at this point, I don’t think they’re coming.”

Yeah, seventh grade was a riot. I don’t think I ever welcomed a summer break like I did that year.

I’m no longer flat-chested, and I have a decent selection of bras in my dresser. Mandy would probably be disappointed that my bra collection is fairly utilitarian and boring (I need something in hot pink or leopard print, I think), but they’re good enough. My body saw fit to give me a respectable pair of C’s, and made sure I had them in plenty of time for them to be put to work. Right now, those breasts are currently responsible for 100% of the nutrition for my four month old daughter, Mira. My breasts are not only good looking, they provide nourishment and comfort to my infant. I’m proud of them, stretch marks and all, and I only wish Mandy could see how my top half has filled out now.

And then I’d squirt the bitch in the eye with breastmilk.

Christina

…as the Queen continues to pout around her house, please welcome Sara…she rocks.

I didn’t realize when I agreed to guest post that my fellow B.O.O.B. and real-life pal Velveteen Mind would be going before me. I made the mistake of reading her post before starting my own, and that little voice of doubt immediately began to creep in. You are going to look like such a dork posting your ramblings after they have read her spectacular-as-usual musings. She is so thoughtful and so talented, how can you hope to follow an act like that?

My inner voice is quite the critical bitch.

For the longest time I gave in to it. Minor incidents that should have never fazed me became proof positive that I was just a bumbling idiot, and no one could possibly like me. I was once plainly snubbed at a children’s birthday party because my husband was not in the military, when we lived in a neighborhood full of Air Force officers. After finding out my husband was *gasp* a civilian, she literally turned and walked away. What I should have done was yanked the snobby bitch back by her poorly bleached highlights and told her to fuck off, my husband makes more money than yours ever will and didn’t have to sign over his life to the government to do it. Instead I shrank into a corner and didn’t try to talk to anyone else the entire rest of the afternoon, telling myself clearly I didn’t fit in. It wasn’t her that was wrong, it was me, or so I let myself think.

I’m sorry to say that moment followed me for a good long time. After we moved to the town we live in now, I didn’¢t put much of any effort into make friends for the first two years. Popping out two boys in two years kept me busy, and in between I felt too awkward to attempt it. That inner voice kept rearing her head, telling me it was no use, no one here would like me anyways.

I’m not sure what finally changed, other than maybe I began to figure out nothing would ever happen by sitting back and waiting for friends to magically appear on my doorstep. I joined a playgroup, which in itself ended on a slightly disastrous note, but in the process I met a few awesome friends. I started to push myself to get out, to talk to people, and to get involved. In a moment of yet-to-be-determined bravery or stupidity, I even joined our school PTA board. Forcing myself to get out around people seems to help with my confidence, so I just keep doing it more and more.

As much as I like to think I’m beyond it, the self doubt catches up with me at times. In my mind the voice is attached to a bad set of bleached highlights, and for the first time in my life I think I’m finally able to face her properly and tell the bitch where to shove it. I’ll let the rest of the world worry about criticizing me; I’ve got better things to do.

Sara